


Refuge

by FoxLight



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 11:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3935089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FoxLight/pseuds/FoxLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Helen finally finds the courage to confide in John. A tag to "Novelty" though it can stand alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

Helen woke to a cold and snowless dawn. The air was foreign and ripe with the scent of pine. There was a large window at her front and through its watery panels she could see a pale hint of light nudging its way through the inky sky. 

She felt a warm puff of air and a gentle squeeze at her back as John stirred against her. He was awake, she could tell, and had probably been so for quite some time. Even in their early days, he had never slept well and time had only made his trouble worse. That he had taken her away from the Sanctuary proper did not surprise her. It was rare that she took such liberties with him, but when she did they would often teleport elsewhere. It was a novelty for both and provided an opportunity for complete seclusion. 

Memories of the night before floated into her mind--the lights, the party, and the subsequent journey home that led up to their private interlude. John was trying his best not to alarm her, keeping his body as still as stone until she could collect her thoughts. It was oddly endearing and she almost thought to smile. 

“I remember,” she whispered, moving to caress his arm.

There was a pause before he returned the touch, then reached with nervous arms to collect the wayward comforter that had escaped them in the night. As he tucked its warmth around her, the line of his lips found a trail from jaw to collarbone. An arm looped around her waist, drawing her back into the curve of his body but something about her seemed stiff, still. Wary, he pulled back in mild apprehension.

“You have regrets,” John stated lowly, gently, a thumb tracing patterns at the small of her back, eyes lidded and heavy with recent sleep. He could feel the bottom of her torso against his, soft and pliant, rising and falling with the cadence of his breath. 

Helen closed the gap between them, turning to face him within the cocoon of their warmth. She swallowed and he felt the motion flutter across his skin, sending shivers down the length of his body.

“Not about last night, John.” she hummed, her voice caught between emotions.

He looked down to see the outline of her head pillowed against chest, “Then what is it?” He murmured into her hair, topping the words with a kiss. “The years between us have not blinded me to your habits. I can tell that you are troubled.” 

“Pity that,” she huffed, “I was hoping to have a seamless morning.”

He took a deep breath, deciding to let the issue drift. “Have you had a guess at where we are yet?”

“Southern Appalachians.” She stated in a beat, “I haven’t decided which state.”

“Any leads?”

She made a face, squinting into the window. “Tennessee?”

“Right as usual,” he slowly stroked her skin. “I was given this property by a man who once saved my life. He had no heirs, died nearly thirty years ago now. When he was alive, he let me use this place as a refuge--never questioned who I was or from whence I had come. Desperation breeds the strangest allies,” he mused.

“It’s beautiful.” 

There was a soft intonation of agreement, then silence reigned as his hands sought to soothe away the tension in her muscles. When met with futility, he sighed, defeated.

“Helen,” he urged. “Please. Let me in. Or have forgotten how we used to confide in each other? We were friends before anything else.”

Her hand rose to the bridge of her nose. “I just don’t talk about these things, John.”

“Maybe not with them,” he said, “but you used to be different with me.”

“Are you honestly asking why I’m not that way now?”

“No,” he grumbled, “I’m just disappointed.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to live with that.”

“We used to be so close.”

Her fingers squeezed his, despite her budding ire. “We had our moments,” she offered. “More heated debates than anything. Do you recall that argument we had in the botanic gardens? I missed a class because of that.”

“And you cost me a cricket match,” he retorted, bubbling at the memory. “Wouldn’t speak to me for three days, though for the life of me I cannot remember our disagreement.”

“Neither can I." She laughed. "Perhaps James would have remembered.”

“Yes,” he reminisced, “the old boy was practically begging me to make it up to you.”

“Grew tired of my ranting, I presume.”

“Or mine.”

A weighted pause fell between them. “But there were other times," he spoke quietly. "Times when I truly needed you. You were there when that blackguard of a batsman from Cambridge and his band of mates roughed me up.” 

Helen winced at the memory. Early in their friendship, during his days as a cricketer at Oxford, John had made his share of enemies. Caught unawares while returning to his quarters one night, he’d received a brutal beating. James had been out of town at the time and, too weak to patch himself up, John had come to her for aid.

“I was robbed of my dignity that night, and, for my injuries, feared I might never play again, but you healed me in every regard, Helen. Your companionship, in those days, was indispensable. I can only hope that some trace of that bond still remains. ” 

She placed her chin at the center of his chest, regarding him seriously through the growing haze of light. The face that met her was John in every regard, from his pale eyes to the slight ridge of concern along his brow. The rage would come in time, but within the cocoon of the fragile present she found the desire to be sincere with him. “Of course it does,” she said with a voice like mist. 

“Then let me help while I am able.” A hand rose gingerly to brush her face. "Find in me the sanctuary and refuge that you allot to every creature save yourself." 

The whir of a breeze swept past the window as she considered their past. At Oxford, he had aided her as well: when other students had mocked her, when professors questioned her father’s integrity, and when she had acquired injuries of her own in her work with abnormals. He'd stood by her, indifferent to what the world might think of him for it. She had relied on that strength in the past, and it helped shape who she became in the future.

She rose to straddle him, her hair framing his face, her movements ethereal.

John watched, transfixed, as an infinity of sorrows stretched themselves out across the galaxies in her eyes; nebulae of burning sand twisting and turning throughout every crevice of her soul. In that moment, his heart pulsed, overcome by love, and he crumbled beneath the weight of her compassion.

“Helen,” he choked when her thumb found his cheek, tracing the scar she had placed there. 

“Shh,” she hushed, silencing him with a kiss. He was going to apologize, to shower her in remorse in an attempt to mitigate the damage he had caused in the past, but it would all be in vain. Lucidity had always brought him guilt.

“Please,” he begged, eyes clamped shut as he pressed his forehead against hers, willing her to understand his sorrow. “Whatever I do in the future...”

“I know,” she said with watering eyes, the words unneeded between them. 

They stayed that way for a while; breathing together, neither one willing to let the other suffer alone, until the pain finally died down, leaving them both raw and grey. 

Helen let her body slacken against him, giving him her weight. Her eyes became nomads among the stringy trees and pale mountains that stood like great centurions in the mist. Beyond the view, the errant sounds of lonely birds and swaying trees filtered into being. She took strength from the sight of the world she loved and gathered from it the will to let him in. 

“I dreamt of her last night.” The words were frail and brittle at first. “She was so much like you.”

Whether from the haze of the previous night’s lovemaking or the simple desire to return to sleep, John blinked in rare confusion. She felt the cogs whirring in his mind as he hastily sought an answer. 

“Ashley,” the name ebbed out of him and he cupped the hand on his chest. “I rather thought she was like you,” “Strong, independent, completely unwilling to listen to a word I said,” there was a short, shared chuckle, then a low sigh. “She was a survivor.”

“In the end she was plagued with a condition similar to yours; forced to fight against a will that was not her own. I couldn’t save her John, and I couldn’t save you. Of all the regrets in my life, those are among my deepest.”

His heart fell and an old pain ebbed its way back into his being. Anger rose, as it always did--as it always would-- at the wrongness of it all. When he found the strength to speak again, his voice was small and distant.

“You will cure me yet, Doctor,” he said with sanguine eyes. “You will cure me yet.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.” His face nuzzled against hers, then he pressed his lips to her temple, “and, given the time, you would have healed her too. I cannot entertain the notion that the great Helen Magnus could possibly be outdone by the tantrums of an interdimensional vagrant, or by any errant whim of the Cabal’s. You will always find a way,” he murmured, stretching his neck to seal the words with a kiss. “You always have.”

She wanted to chide him; to name him ridiculous for his unbridled faith, but instead her heart swelled and she was struck with sudden muteness. Helen took him then, the fates be damned, transcribing her emotions into a cacophony of taste and touch until he was gasping with the effort to keep up. Evidence of his own desire soon pressed itself against her thigh and they lost themselves in the throes of the frigid dawn.

It was strange, she thought briefly in the dreamlike aftermath of their coupling, to be sharing his body with another being. Stranger still was the notion that she had been blind to it all those years; but if this was to be a turf war between her and an abnormal creature, then she was determined to win. John had been her first patient after all and, given the time, she hoped that he might one day be her last.

**Author's Note:**

> The same notes in Novelty apply to this work. I have trouble placing it in the actual timeline.
> 
> Fun fact: the real Montague John Druitt had a passion for playing cricket and was known for his skill as a bowler. He played during his school years and beyond. When not occupied with his duties as both an assistant schoolmaster and a barrister in adulthood, he made time to go on tour with local clubs. Busy guy!


End file.
